


But Exceedingly Fine

by simaetha



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Stockholm Syndrome, emotionally abusive relationship tactics, gaslighting?, there are no good outcomes here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 18:53:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3906931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simaetha/pseuds/simaetha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Torture is not, in statistical terms, an effective method of interrogation.</p><p>
  <i>"The useful thing about this," says Annatar, "is that it still works, even if you know what's happening."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	But Exceedingly Fine

You're sitting back against the wall, trying to ease the pain in your shoulders, when you first hear the voices outside: one in particular, familiar, snapping out an order at the soldiers guarding the door to the makeshift prison.

 _Annatar_ , you think.

You're finding it difficult to focus. In the hours spent bound with your hands behind you, the feeling in your shoulders has gone from a faint bruised ache to a constant burning sensation spreading across your neck and back: you keep shifting, trying and failing to stretch.

The key turns in the lock, and Annatar stalks in, all golden eyes and banked rage. For a moment, the sound outside carries clearly to you through the open door, before Annatar kicks it closed behind him: screams giving way to shouts and laughter from the troops nearby. Celebration in the conquered city.

At least you managed to evacuate most of the civilians first, you think. You weren't completely stupid about _everything_.

Alright. Maybe you can play for time, at least.

" _T_ _yelperinquar_ ," Annatar is saying, each syllable clipped with anger. "What have you _done_ with them?"

"With what?" you say. You bare your teeth at him in something like a grin. "Are you missing something?"

Annatar glares at you. It's -

You _know_ who he is. You've known for _years_. But your mind still fills in for you, _Annatar-in-a-temper_ , as if it were just another day at the forge, arguing with him about alloys and casting techniques; as if he hadn't knocked your sword out of your hands only hours ago, parrying your own blows with contemptuous ease, surrounded by the armies he brought to your city.

The soldiers guarding the door are mortal Men, but there are _Orcs_ out there in the looting, turned loose on your people.

"The Nine I have," says Annatar, in quick, precise diction, "and my own One, which I think you know of; but there are another Seven I helped you make, Tyelperinquar, and Three which you wrought with stolen knowledge, and _I have a right to them_. Tell me. _What have you done?_ "

Ah. So you guessed correctly; they _are_ that important to him.

"I hardly think that's fair," you say lightly. "You presented it as a gift at the time, after all - _Annatar_. But I suppose I shouldn't be surprised if _you_ wanted to go back on your promises, now that you find them inconvenient."

He slaps you.

The pain is blinding. He's still wearing his gauntlet, and the metal cuts into your cheek as the force of the blow snaps your head back against the wall; you feel the impact slam through your skull and jaw.

"Is that," you gasp out, "is that the, best you can, do -"

For a moment, the rage in his eyes rises and gives way to something else, an ancient, barely-leashed fury that has nothing left in it of anything you ever called friend; that will consume you in its path and go on to swallow up the rest of the world in ruin with it, and still not be satisfied -

Then -

You have the impression of a decision barely made, the balance teetering on a knife's-edge. Annatar's face smooths over, as if that alien, terrible anger was never there; he smiles, thinly.

"Oh, _Tyelpe_ ," he says. "I did miss you, you know. Alright. The Seven are close, aren't they? I think I can find them myself; they call out to the One, now that I'm here. But the Three..."

He hesitates. "You wouldn't have kept them here, would you?" he says slowly. "You always wanted to hide them from me. So... Galadriel? But I don't think even you would have given _her_ all three Rings of Power.

"It doesn't matter, really. Lórinand won't hold out long, once I have the rest of Eriador; neither will Lindon or the Havens. I'll have the Three anyway, soon enough."

"I don't know what you're talking about," you say sharply. You feel frightened and sick, in a way you hadn't, before. Your head throbs.

"Don't worry, Tyelpe," Annatar says. "I can manage this without your help."

***

The walls of your cell are black volcanic rock. Basalt, polished smooth.

The single window, a thin arrow-slit, gives you a narrow view across the outskirts of the fortress - outside the tower itself, Barad-dûr is a sprawling conglomeration of stone and metal and even what looks like clay-brick, crawling with people and Orcs half hidden in the endless coal-smoke and dust-winds - and towards the Ered Lithui, gray mountains stabbing upwards like twisted fangs.

It is six paces between the wall of your cell and the door, and four paces between the sides.

You come to know those dimensions very precisely.

As cells in the Dark Tower go, you suppose, this must be luxurious indeed. There's a bed, even a desk and chair, made of hardwood and bolted to the floor. For an hour or so in the late afternoon, the light comes in through the window directly, shining a cross-pattern onto the floor.

Years are really not very much time for you. In terms of your lifespan, four years is not even a fraction of a fraction. The weeks you spent locked in a prison-wagon on your way here, chained hand and foot, are the barest eye-blink; your time here might as well have passed between heartbeats.

It doesn't feel that way.

No-one talks to you for the entire time.

The guards wear armour with full face-masks; you can barely see the glitter of their eyes. Mortals: not Orcs. Their movements around you are jumpy, paranoid; something about you makes them afraid.

You work out the construction of the chair and desk and carefully, imperceptibly loosen the joints until when the guards come in you are able to stand up and hit one of them in the neck with a chair-leg. The other is too startled to react properly, and you snatch the fallen guard's sword and gut him with it.

You make it almost a hundred paces outside the cell door before what seems like half the garrison dogpiles you. That you make it that far is principally due to the exaggerated care with which they subdue you; you are barely bruised in the process. The sole consequences of your escape attempt are the extra guards who are thereafter stationed by your door whenever it is opened, and the only moderately competent repairs to your furniture, which require you to take everything apart again to redo it better yourself.

You insult the guards. After a while, you talk to them, random conversation about whatever comes to mind, anything for a reaction that never comes. Sometimes you can see a flicker of movement under the bulky armour, something like a flinch or twitch, but their silence is unbreakable.

You are desperately lonely, and very bored.

The air of Mordor is hot and dry and often full of dust. You watch the motions outside your window, the work-shifts changing around dawn and dusk; you try, and fail, to infer troop-movements. You make guesses about the purpose of each building. You sing. You meditate. You plan out new works in your mind. You exercise, inasmuch as you have space.

You think it's around four years, more or less.

When the door opens at last for Annatar himself, the relief that briefly strikes you, in the instant before you remember Annatar's real name again, is strong enough that you shake with it.

***

"You can't keep me here forever," you say.

"Of course not," Annatar says. "I don't plan to."

"Really? What _are_ your plans for me, then?"

"At the moment," says Annatar, "I was hoping you might want to talk. I haven't had much in the way of intelligent conversation, lately."

"...How _did_ your war go?" you ask. You can't trust his answers, of course, but - you know that _you_ lost. You're hoping your allies didn't; even if the fact that Annatar is here, and not noticeably besieged by any of them, suggests that things didn't go as well as you'd dared, occasionally and unrealistically, to hope they might. And, when you think about it -

The faintest flicker crosses Annatar's features; you know him well enough to read it. "Well enough. I don't mean to dishearten you, but Gil-galad was almost completely ineffective; we pushed almost straight through Eriador before meeting any real resistance."

"...You _lost_ , didn't you," you say, with pleasure. "So much for taking Lórinand and Lindon and the Havens. The Three weren't quite so easy to capture after all, were they?"

"I was hoping Númenor's isolationists would delay Minastir for another year," Annatar says, failing to hide his annoyance. "If I'd had even another few weeks - well, _almost_ doesn't count for much, I suppose. There's always a next time."

"No, there isn't," you say. "I'm your _enemy_ , Annatar. You don't get any second chances. Either let me go or kill me; I'm not going to play along with whatever you're attempting here."

"I don't have anything in particular to lose by trying," Annatar says. "I _am_ sorry I spent so long on campaign, by the way. I know it must have been - unpleasant - for you."

The silent, faceless guards, you think. The isolation.

The features of your captivity rearrange themselves in your mind; you see, all of a sudden, the shape that they make.

"How _dare_ you keep _lying_ to me," you say, angry and - sickened, almost. "You're hoping that I'll - that you can take away any choice - _you did this on purpose_ -"

"The useful thing about this," says Annatar, "is that it still works even if you know what's happening. I can be very patient, Tyelpe. You've no idea."

"I'll fade," you say, your voice flat. "You can't keep me captive forever. And forever is what it would take."

"Don't be dramatic," Annatar says. "Weaker people than you have lived through worse than this."

***

You refuse to talk to him.

If he - you can't understand what he _wants_ from you. Whatever it is, you won't give it to him.

Annatar starts coming to your cell for an hour or so, most evenings. You sit cross-legged in silence on the bare floor, facing the window, and refuse to acknowledge his presence in any way whatsoever.

You can't quite make yourself want to die, but the bare fact of your existence is the only concession you're prepared to make.

He still keeps talking to you.

"This isn't altogether convenient," he admits, piling up scrolls and tablets on your desk. "I'm thinking of moving you somewhere with more workspace."

Some of it seems to be just - administration. You keep silent while Annatar talks distractedly about whatever he happens to be working on; the words _efficiency_ and _organisation_ come up frequently.

"I know you agree with me about how Middle-earth could be better governed," he says easily. "We've had that conversation in the past."

You try not to listen. There are times when that's more difficult than others.

He starts bringing texts from what must be his personal library. The selection is - _extraordinary_.

"I don't think I agree with Celeril's comments on microcrystalline structures," Annatar says thoughtfully. "It might be a useful subject for experiment. I suspect she had trouble keeping the temperature constant at greater heats."

He leaves scrolls and codices behind. You consider leaving them alone, but - there are works you thought must have been lost with Nargothrond and Gondolin. There are works you never knew existed at all, Sindarin names you've never heard of, although some of them you think are probably from Doriath. There are works in _Khuzdul_ , which you didn't actually know Annatar spoke; although, thinking about it, you suppose you shouldn't be surprised.

You are completely certain any Dwarf you ever knew would have died to keep this sort of text away from the hands of outsiders. You were one of very, very few Eldar ever to learn their language, and you never saw anything like this. You are, in fact, certain that Dwarves _did_ die trying to keep the scrolls you're reading out of your captor's hands.

You can't bear to destroy any of it, even if it's the one thing within your power that might actually hurt him in the slightest degree.

Eventually, Annatar sits down next to you to spread out blueprints and designs on the floor. You keep trying to pretend he isn't there, but even when you bite your tongue to stop yourself commenting, you can't seem to hide or prevent the interested flicker of your eyes across the papers.

***

The thing is that you have always found Annatar far easier to like than you can really justify to yourself.

It's not as if you ever thought he was _nice_ , or a _good person_ , or anything.

There was always something more than a little suspicious about his story. _A Maia of Aulë, sent to give aid to the peoples of Middle-earth_ \- oh, sure. The Valar's idea of _aiding the peoples of Middle-earth_ has always been to tell them to leave it for Aman. It took five hundred years and one of the Silmarils your family destroyed themselves for to get them to do _anything_ about their own renegade.

So - if there was some sort of shadow over Annatar's past, if he wasn't quite what he said he was - well, you wanted to look to the future, instead. There were any number of possible explanations that were both more likely and more forgiveable than _turning out to literally be Sauron_.

You think even Galadriel was shocked by that part, to be honest, though she'd clearly been biting her tongue so hard on the phrase _I told you so_ that it was difficult to tell.

You'd always known he had hidden motives. You were just _stupid_ enough to think they aligned with yours.

And - for a time, he was your closest friend.

He was the one person you could always say anything at all to, and he _understood_. You didn't have to slow down or stumble through explanations of why you found an idea interesting; you could trust him to pick up your meaning and run with it. Keeping up with him felt like an actual _challenge_. You'd argued as often as you'd agreed with each other, but that just pushed you both to do better.

Making the first Ring with him, your proof of concept, had been so much _fun_.

You could always talk about your plans with him; you could rely on him for advice. You didn't always _agree_ with his advice, let alone take it, but whatever he said would be worth hearing. He was an excellent, thoroughly non-judgmental listener; it was as if there was nothing you could say that would disturb him.

That part looked much less comforting in retrospect, actually.

But - he was _intelligent_ , and _interesting_ , and even _funny_ , in a sarcastic sort of way -

And you can't stop thinking -

***

"The battle at Ost-in-Edhil," you say, cutting Annatar off mid-sentence, "levelled half the city. Then you led trolls and orcs and wargs inside. I could hear the screams. There isn't _anything_ you could say or do that would justify that for me."

Annatar pauses.

"I deeply wish," he says "that you hadn't made that necessary."

" _Necessary?_ I -"

"I _offered to let you surrender_. I _said_ that everyone would be well-treated if you backed down. You could have accepted so _easily_. Once I'd taken the city by force, what did you expect me to do? I kept the orcs in line as far as I could."

"You could have _not invaded in the first place_! You couldn't possibly have expected us to just surrender to - to -"

"To Sauron?" Annatar completes your sentence, the corner of his mouth rising in an ironic half-twist of a smile. "I'm still the same person, Tyelpe. I didn't become someone different just because you know more about me."

"I thought," you say, "that you had _friends_ there. I wasn't the only person you ever spent time with. Some people left, but -"

"I didn't find any of them," says Annatar, "if that's what you mean. I was hoping they'd _all_ get out - do you think I'd just throw away someone like Ólneth's mathematics?"

You wish you _could_ think of him as Sauron. It's - you know he _is_ , but it's still _Annatar_ that comes first to your mind, every time; the memory of him managing to draw even shy Ólneth out into animated discussion is acutely painful, overlaid as it is by the shadow of every rumour and legend you ever heard about the Enemy's lieutenant, cruel and remorseless and terrifying.

"I didn't think," you say distantly, "that you'd do any of this." And - if you were so profoundly wrong about Annatar, how can you trust your own perceptions of _anything_?

Annatar sighs. Then, for the first time anyone has touched you in - years, now - he reaches out to you and places his hand over your wrist, his skin forge-warm as ever.

"I didn't _want_ to, Tyelpe," he says. "And I _am_ sorry."

***

"What if," you say, "you used crystals at the focal points - "

"I already thought of that," Annatar says, "but it makes the overall structure too fragile to channel anything useful. The stress-factors -"

"Pentagonal-cut adamant - hang on, let me do the calculations." You pull over a tablet and start drafting out the spell-notation with a stylus. "I can't see why this wouldn't work."

"Let's _try_ it, then," Annatar says, eyes gleaming. "I've already got all of the materials; we can test it in an hour."

He rises to his feet in a rustle of silk robes, then extends a hand to pull you up after him. You take it automatically, not quite realising what's happening, until he opens the door and you realise he's still drawing you after him.

"Wait," you say, "I - " and then stumble to a halt. You can't quite articulate what -

"Come on, Tyelpe," Annatar says, a little impatient. "You can't tell me you don't want to get out of here; my workshop's just the next floor down."

"Right," you say, and let him tug you along. The guards fall in behind you; you can't tell if they're surprised.

It feels like you've crossed more than a literal boundary, somehow. You know you shouldn't be talking to Annatar like this, but the silence has been weighing on you more and more. Annatar _does_ come, most days, and you find yourself counting the hours; you try not to show how badly you miss his company when he isn't there.

 _Even if you know what's happening_ , you think of Annatar saying, but the anger has worn thin and tired; you can't seem to summon up the outrage you should.

The corridors are high-ceilinged and dark, lit by sconces set into the walls; you pass through a slightly dizzying succession of halls and stairwells, trying to build a map in your head. Barad-dûr has to be more logically laid out than Nargothrond was - you know it was built from the ground up, not expanded out of a series of twisting river-caves - but you can't see the pattern yet.

And -

You knew there had to be people other than soldiers inside Barad-dûr, of course, but you'd never really _imagined_ it.

Most of them are still mortals; servants and craftspeople and administrators, carrying bundles of scrolls or pushing crates and barrels on wheeled platforms, wearing sturdy work clothes or the dark livery of the Eye; it strikes you again that everyone you see here is in service to _Sauron_. They look surprisingly ordinary.

You slant a glance at Annatar, taking in the dark silks and the golden circlet he wears on his brow. He hadn't looked so different to you before, but - here - the way people bow their heads and scurry out of your path, the mixture of fear and awe you catch on his servants' faces -

Annatar was always _confident_ , but this is something else, a careless pride that barely seems to notice their deference, simply expecting it as his due; the grace with which he moves seems dangerous in a way you rarely saw in Ost-in-Edhil. You wonder what his servants think when they see you walking beside him; whether they even know who you are.

 _Sauron_ , you think again. It still doesn't quite work, but - there's something about how _absolutely_ Annatar seems to rule here. None of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain ever showed you that much deference; you would never have wanted it if they had.

Down a broad flight of stairs (you glance up and see the stairwell ascending far above your head, into the heart of the fortress, daylight gleaming for a moment from an unseen source), and you see Annatar press his hand to a heavy pair of double doors, set with abstract patterns in wrought iron filigree. A hidden mechanism clicks in the lock, and the doors swing open. Annatar turns and smiles at you, holding the door open for you to enter; the guards wait outside.

"Come on," he says, throwing his overrobe carelessly across a workbench, "the stores are over _here_ \- "

You let him guide you through, looking around in curiosity; there are real windows here, looking out over the landscape, even if they're fortified with iron bars in relentless practicality. It's not as if there's much of a view, anyway. Most of the workshop seems familiar enough, but there are odd structures and machinery that Annatar doesn't bother to describe, polished mechanisms gleaming in the light; you're not sure if their purposes are secret or just irrelevant.

"So using an engraved base," you say, "mithril would be better, but silver's enough to make a first-of-kind -"

"Right," says Annatar, handing you an engraving tool, "starting from factors of two and seven, then -"

You watch his hands as they move over the components, the bright gold of the Ring almost glowing. Not for the first time, you wonder about the design elements: the Ring is somehow _compelling_ enough in appearance that to call it plain sounds wrong, but it's evidently more powerful than any of the Three you made, for all that it looks to be no more than a slim band of metal. How much of that is in the actual crafting, you wonder, and how much is just its wearer?

You could - what could you do? Try to take the Ring, and hope that you actually accomplished anything? You know that Annatar's stronger than you, and here in the heart of his power - there's no second step to the plan that would actually be useful.

Annatar glances up at you, eyes bright with pleasure at the work. You can't help smiling back.

***

Your room has _real windows_ , and _bookshelves_ , and _space_ -

"Do you like it?" Annatar says, looking intensely pleased at your reaction. "I thought you would."

"I suppose it's an improvement over the last prison cell," you say, restraining yourself as you eye the elaborate carpet and bright tapestries that cover the dark stone of the walls.

"Yes, I'm awful to you, I know," Annatar says, rolling his eyes, "but anyway, this is really much more convenient for both of us. The guards will escort you elsewhere in the Tower if you ask them, too - the forges and workshops, my library, almost anywhere."

"How gracious of you," you say flatly, letting yourself flop over onto the couch and bounce a little to test the cushions. "Do you ever think your real problem might be that you're just _too_ generous?"

"All the time," Annatar says, drifting closer to sink down next to you. "Here, turn your head; your hair's a state."

"You should probably have got me a mirror sooner, then," you say, feeling his fingers in your hair, disentangling your half-hearted plait.

Quiet, for a few minutes, while Annatar cards his fingers through your hair, working out the tangles. "...I've got to make a trip for a while," he says eventually. "A few months, probably? I have things to take care of near Rhûn. I'll try not to be too long, and you'll have access to the workshop and the library while I'm gone."

He can probably feel you tense, but - you're not just locked in a cell this time, at least. It isn't so long.

You hate this feeling of how much your world has been _reduced_. That you're _grateful_ to be allowed parole in Barad-dûr, when - but you can't pretend the gratitude isn't there and real. You wish you could hate _him_ , but you can't lie to yourself about that, either.

You tilt your head back, feeling him respond by stroking fingers down towards the nape of your neck, and look fixedly towards the window; it's easier if you don't have to look at him.

"Why - " you say - "Annatar, _why_ the Rings? I thought... I thought you _agreed_ with me, about helping people, about making Middle-earth a better place. Was it - were you - "

His hands still, then resume their gentle motion.

"I _do_ agree with you, Tyelpe," he says. "I _am_ making things better. It's - I understand why that's hard for you to believe, and I'm sorry for that. But it's true."

"Then - " You hesitate. "Then why _change_ them? The Rings were supposed to be - instruments, for healing and preservation, not - not a _means of control_. We could all feel what you were doing as soon as you made yours."

"...The two," Annatar says, "are connected. I'm not _quite_ arrogant enough to believe I'm the only person in Middle-earth fit for governance, Tyelpe, but I _am_ better than the other options.

"Maybe someone like Galadriel _means_ well - I'll take your word for it - but there's a reason it was you and not her who became Lord of Eregion; you might have _liked_ her better than I did, but you know how obstructive and difficult she could be in the face of real progress."

You open your mouth to try to voice an objection, but Annatar is still speaking.

"And it's not just the Eldar who live in Middle-earth - Tyelpe, the mortals _need_ help, they can't manage by themselves. The ones you left to themselves south of the Gwathló haven't built cities or civilisations; half of them degenerate into thieves and rapists and outlaws. It's not their fault; they just don't live long enough to learn for themselves. They _need_ someone to step in and look after them."

There's something wrong with what he's saying, but - it's not as if you really went round making friends with mortals yourself. You know there should be a hundred arguments you could make right now, but the words slip away from you.

"You couldn't leave people the _choice_?" you ask. "If you're so much better, then - why can't you just ask them to choose you as their Lord, instead of all - of all _this_?"

"People don't always choose the right things, Tyelpe," Annatar says. He finishes the braid, and flips the neatly sectioned pattern over your shoulder. "There, that's better."

***

Time passes more quickly, once you can actually _meet_ people.

"Here," says Iûni, "can you give me a hand with pouring this -"

You nod, following her over. A single person _can_ manage most of the tasks here - there's a system of levers and counterweights for assistance - but it's always safer to have help when you're working with liquid-hot metals.

You help her pour the glowing molten steel into the mould, her hands steady; she steps back, wiping off her brow and smiling at you. Iûni's dark hair has streaks of grey at the temple; her smile makes the fine lines deepen around her eyes.

The Orodruin forge simmers with relentless dry heat; the drinking-water has to be imported, tastes lukewarm and flat, and stands in barrels at every corner. There's only so much clever ventilation and heat-transfer systems can do, when the earth itself seethes with heat and the choked air outside is hardly better. No-one wears much more than aprons and thin desert silks; the heat is still exhausting, even at night when the desert around you ought to cool.

You love it here. Workings that draw on the volcano itself - you could do _so much_ with this. Your best designs are normally more delicate - the fine tracery of jewel-work - but this is really giving you ideas about _scale_.

If you'd had this when you were helping to design the fortifications for Ost-in-Edhil - but you shake off the thought.

"Come on," says Iûni, cutting through your distraction. "We've both been working for hours - _I_ need a break, even if you don't, and you know Lord Mairon told me to look after you. Let's get some food."

"Thanks," you say cheerfully, turning plans over in your head. "You're right, actually; that sounds good."

Almost nobody actually eats in the dining-rooms; you find your way outside, where the evening air is marginally cooler. For once, there's a soft breeze, and the air towards the south east is clear, looking out across the barren plains, the view framed by mountains on either side.

("I could escape," you'd said to Annatar, the first time you visited.

"Go ahead," Annatar said, comfortably. "You wouldn't make it a league from here, not through the desert. Anyway, you won't want to.")

"That's where I'm from," Iûni says casually, interrupting your thoughts, "by the shores of the Núrnen, towards the Ephel Dúath. I can't say I miss it much."

"I suppose Mordor isn't a pleasant place to grow up?" you say.

"What? No, not that." She hesitates, narrowing her eyes in thought. "Where I grew up is all vineyards and olive groves, and the view from the mountains across to the sea; we've had peace there for as long as anyone remembers."

"How did you come to leave?" you ask, curious. You suppose Mordor can't be all desert and orcs, but you've only ever heard rumours about its hinterlands.

"Oh, I came up through the institutional apprenticeship system; I was second at one of the Barad-dûr foundries when the Lord picked me out." She darts a look at you, challenging. "If I'd grown up in one of your Elven vassal-states, I suppose I'd still be scrabbling around in the dirt."

The - _intensity_ of Iûni's respect for Annatar tends to leave you uncomfortable. "I don't think that's completely fair," you say.

"No?" She takes another bite out of her wrap; chews and swallows. "If it weren't for the Lord, I expect we'd be the same way. He taught us everything we have. The rest of your Powers certainly never came to the East."

You don't have a good answer. You've spoken to more mortals here than you ever had in your life before, and - most of them seem _happy_ , is the thing.

You're fairly sure Annatar is managing your introductions carefully - Iûni, who admits she's been tasked to watch over you, and whose loyalty to Annatar is ferocious, tends to be just a little too _present_ , know your schedule a little too well.

But Iûni _is_ loyal, to the point of devotion, and as talented as you can reasonably expect of someone with barely fifty years' experience. It's - you'd always thought the sort of mortal who took service with the Dark Tower would have to be either selfish and short-sighted, or just _evil_ , doing wrong for the sake of wrongness.

"Come on," you say to Iûni, standing abruptly. "I want to get back."

She raises an eyebrow, and you know you've lost an argument, of sorts.

You can imagine loyalty to Annatar. You couldn't imagine loyalty to Barad-dûr and the Eye, but - you can see it nonetheless, now that you're here, and you can't stop thinking -

***

You push open the door to Annatar's study - polished dark wood, patterned with a geometric relief in gold. The guards look at you askance, but they don't try to stop you, and you're getting tired of Annatar wandering into your rooms whenever - as far as you can tell - he gets bored; you might as well interrupt him for once.

"I'm rearranging Workshop Three," you say. "There's some new machinery I want to put in."

"Don't move any of my things," Annatar says distractedly. There are maps spread out over his desk, weighed down at the corners with stacked-up codices and an ornamental silver abacus; the afternoon sun through the wide windows strikes bright glints of gold from his hair. "You can do what you like other than that, I suppose."

"Everything in there is yours," you point out. "I don't think you've touched most of it in the last ten years or so, though. What are you looking at?" You move closer, to perch on the arm of his chair and lean against his shoulder.

"The coastal harbours, primarily," Annatar says. "Númenor's starting to fortify. Minastir is clearly much more interventionist than his predecessor; I was hoping they'd have gone back to sit on their island and stare at Tol Eressëa some more by now, although I can't say I had any actual expectation it would work out that easily."

"Shipping problems?" you ask, thinking of the trade from Harad up to Mordor; you've heard around that imports from Harad are more expensive than they used to be.

"Unfortunately so," Annatar says. The corner of his mouth crooks up. "Still, I have some ideas."

"Mm," you say. "So, I thought I'd have everything you left in Workshop Three melted down for scrap, is that alright?

"I'm still using - _Tyelpe_ ," Annatar says, looking briefly irritated. "Fine. Do something sensible with whatever's left there, then. No, wait, make Iûni do something sensible with it, she's actually reliable."

"Thanks," you say. You push away from the chair, then hesitate; Annatar glances up at you.

But - you can't just pretend the ideas aren't _there_. If you can come up with it, so can Annatar; at least this way you'll know how he's using it.

"I had some ideas," you say, "about steel-based alloys. I think - the obvious use would be weaponry. If it works out."

Annatar blinks for a moment, then gives you a look of pure, warm pleasure.

"I'm sure it will," he says. "I'll - we can talk about it later. Take the workshop, Tyelpe. You can have anything you like."

***

"He _didn't_ ," you say, delighted.

"Would I lie to you?" Annatar asks - sprawled back in his chair, wineglass in hand; he gives you an easy smile. "Don't answer that, by the way. No, I'm completely serious. The best part was the way his daughter kept glaring at him - I honestly thought she might try to stab him with the fish-knife if he kept going."

"So what happened next?"

"Well, after I managed to convey both that I was honoured by the offer and that it was completely inappropriate - which wasn't entirely straightforward - "

A knock sounds at the door. You watch Annatar's face change, warmth and humour shuttered away behind a sort of focused impatience as he calls out permission to enter.

The servant, eyes downcast, carries in a scroll on a silver tray; she bows as she places it on the table, then bows again, several times, as she backs away, Annatar's hand waving her off in dismissal.

It's a little sad, you think, the way Annatar doesn't really seem to _interact_ with most people here. You're not sure there's anyone he really talks to other than you, not without having some sort of purpose in mind.

"Good news or bad?" you ask.

"It's - nothing," Annatar says, voice gone clipped and precise. "Nothing worth interrupting dinner for, anyway. Númenor's _pushing_ again, that's all."

"Umbar?" you guess. "You ought to do something about the harbour there; the Númenóreans are only going to keep digging in if you leave it."

You've seen enough of the information and reports that seem to pass constantly across Annatar's desk - all Númenor's been _interested_ in so far is timber, but their fortified ports are starting to look more like colonies these days. And the Haradrim don't have the troops to do anything about it on their own.

"I will," Annatar says, and gives you a cold smile. "I will certainly _demonstrate_ to Eärendil's descendants the nature of their folly. Given time, if not quite yet."

The look in his eyes has gone absolutely flat, feeling pared down to a predator's intent gaze; you return it without flinching.

"Annatar," you say, reaching out to put your hand over his own.

The coldness ebbs; you can feel the way Annatar relaxes, pushing his temper down.

"Fine, then," Annatar says. "I'm sorry." He turns your hand round in his, locking your fingers together. "You're right, though, we should cut them out of Umbar if we can. But I'm not sure we have the resources to manage it without leaving us weakened elsewhere."

"It can't be all _that_ difficult," you say, and Annatar smiles again, pleased and bright, as if he'd never felt anything else at all.

***

You lean against the parapet on the fortress wall, looking out over the construction site. The day is coming up bright and cool, a faint breeze tugging at your hair; the baking heat of Barad-dûr's noon is still long hours away.

"See," Annatar says, gesturing, "they're laying the foundations for the new furnace _there_ , and -"

The work-gangs are already busy, figures moving in rhythm; at this height, the sound of work-songs drifts up to you faintly, mixed with the shouts of overseers and the occasional crack of a whip.

"Ambitious," you say lightly. "How long do you expect it to take?"

"Only a couple of years," Annatar says cheerfully. "I'm very happy with our progress, lately."

"We've accomplished a lot," you agree, thinking with satisfaction of your latest designs; of the long hours spent with Annatar in the workshops, testing and refining and pushing your ideas further every time. "Númenor have no idea what they're up against."

"It's down to your help, you know," Annatar says. And then he laughs, eyes bright, daylight glinting from the Ring on his hand and the golden ornaments in his hair. "Oh, Tyelpe. I never expected to come this far together.

"I really _am_ pleased."


End file.
